


Save the last Dance for Me

by kingsmn



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Dancing, M/M, Mutual Pining, Napoleon is a Little Shit, Post-Canon, Rating May Change, once they realize what is going on of course
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-24
Updated: 2015-08-24
Packaged: 2018-04-17 02:23:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4648650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingsmn/pseuds/kingsmn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dancing skills are not required to be a good agent. At least not for the KGB and definitely not for one Illya Kuryakin. But for better or for worse he is stuck with Napoleon Solo on this mission and if this is what must be done, he’ll do it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Save the last Dance for Me

**Author's Note:**

> This is basically the Napoleon teaching Illya how to dance fanfiction that nobody asked for and which developed into a whole mission while I was writing?  
> And… this is the first work of fiction I have written in about two years. Please be gentle.  
> Also can you tell I’m too deep in Man from U.N.C.L.E. hell yet? 
> 
> Major thanks go to Kate, without whom I couldn't have done this.

„Illya, I told you, even you can dance.” Solo says, for all the good it’ll do.

“Sure. With a teacher as exceptional as you are.” Illya replies, his voice mocking. Like it is that simple, like it doesn’t matter that they are two men and that he hates the satisfied grin Solo presents him with to his core.

They’ve been at this for hours. Occasionally taking breaks for Solo to put on a new record or sip some of the scotch he has brought to Illya’s quarters and always, always returning to him, hands warm, and eyes too blue. “May I have another dance?” He would ask and Illya would grit his teeth and nod. It’s for the job, he tells himself and the sooner they are done with it the better.

“Why do we need to do this?” He asks anyway, while Solo smoothly leads him around the furniture to the slowing music.  
Illya notices that his partner – the moment it graces his mind he recoils in horror from that word – dances the same way he fights; fluid movements and light footwork. Usually Illya would think those qualities were a waste of time. But he didn’t usually spend his evenings with one hand on another man’s hip either.

“What does the KGB teach you again, exactly?” Solo asks in return, raising one eyebrow at the way Illya tenses up.

“What is vital.” He replies drily, and Solo makes a face, the corners of his mouth turning downwards.

 

Waverly had briefed them on their way to London, accompanying them outside of U.N.C.L.E.’s private jet, handing both a file on their target and their new identities.

“I wish you boys success.” Waverly’s tone was one of a father who just sent them off to meet their overly curious grandparents, patting each of them on their back and swiftly returning up the stairs. Illya had rolled his eyes.

“Is it always going to be this way?” Solo had asked as soon as the door had closed behind their boss. Illya was of the opinion that it was not necessary to dignify him with an answer and he headed straight for the cars that were already waiting for them.

As soon as they had both gotten into the hotel, though – a luxurious building and a perfect match for their aliases, not too far away from their actual destination –, Solo had invited himself over, leaving his luggage untouched and heading straight for the bar, telling Illya they had to prepare him adequately for the event. Apparently Gaby had told him about his failed attempts at dancing and his frown deepens when he thinks about the wholehearted laugh they had shared. At least they let Illya choose the smoking on his own.

 

“You know, since you’re the man here you should try to lead every once in a while.” Solo teasingly interrupts his thoughts, stepping away and spinning around Illya’s hand, before he can stop him.

He should have taken some of the alcohol Solo offered him, he thinks. No, better yet, he should have asked Gaby to teach him how to dance and they would never have been here. Only that she hadn’t been assigned to this job with them, even though they were at the heart of her employing country.  
“You won’t need me, I promise. And there are much more important things to take care of out there.” She said, knowing exactly what effect her words had on him. “One thing”, she added, before Illya could contradict her, “promise me to not kill him, alright?” Of course she had been referring to the cowboy. And who could blame Illya for snapping every once in a while – maybe more often than that – at the constant nuisances Napoleon Solo was providing him with?

Over the last few months – Istanbul, Barcelona, Venice, New York and all the other places they had been sent to – they had _warmed up_ to each other, as Solo would point out. Illya prefers the term _familiarize_ when he thinks about it.

Truth be told more often than not their missions ended in bruises and broken bones, but they were reaching their goals and both Waverly and their respective handlers – a longer leash is still a leash – seemed to be very pleased.

 

As the music plays in the background, spinning a tale of love and loss and Solo continues to patiently guide him, Illya shakes his head.

And it’s as if Solo can read his thoughts. “Well, _someone_ has to distract Barton’s wife while I am taking care of him, right?” He suggests with some truly exceptional insight. Illya snorts, trying to hide the way he goes red but Solo doesn’t let go of it. “You need to be prepared.”

“I am always prepared.” Illya declares, slightly tipping his chin up.

“So what will you do,” he insists, pressing their bodies flush together and leaning his head against Illya’s shoulder, whispering the next few words right into his ear, “if she gets this close?”

A shiver runs down Illya’s spine, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand, soon turning into a familiar, hot, red rage. He barely registers how his hands start to tremble and how his vision is narrowing, until the only thing he sees, is the smug look on that damned American’s face.

“Just drop the act already.” He snarls louder than necessary, gripping at his lapels, feeling Solo’s breath hit his own face, looking down at his parted lips, the faint smell of scotch drifting towards him. It’s not until it’s out of his mouth that he notices how angry he really is.

The realization does not stop him from hauling Solo up with ease and forcefully crashing his body against the closest wall. He savours hearing him gasp, all air leaving his lungs from the blow. The next thing Illya remembers is lifting his arm, like an iron-bar against the other man’s throat, watching his eyes widen.

“Illya…” Is all he manages, one hand wandering up and trying to pry him off, his feet hardly touching the ground. Illya holds him this way another moment, increasing the pressure, waiting for him to fight back. “Please.” Napoleon huffs instead, the plea barely audible.

And just as quickly it had come, the anger he felt floods out of his body, embarrassment and weariness taking its place. He casts down his eyes as he lets go of Solo and then steps away, far enough that the backside of the sofa hits his legs.

“I did not…” He stops mid-sentence, the words echoing like a lie in his own head. _I didn’t want for it to come to this. I am sorry._ Instead he listens to Solo sputter and cough, concentrating on his rumpled clothes and the red mark appearing along his neck.

“We need to do that again sometime, Peril.” Solo says when he recovers his voice, putting on that maddeningly handsome smile and straightening his shirt, as if nothing had happened at all. Illya grunts in response and turns away. Only when he hears Solo close the door to the suite and listens to his footsteps retreat down the hallway, does he unclench his fists.

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea when exactly an update might happen, but I am working on it!


End file.
